


Tap

by celestialenigma



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Horror, No Romance, Or sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialenigma/pseuds/celestialenigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America's afraid of ghosts. The reason why couldn't be more sinister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tap

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: A bit scary (unless I think too highly of my ability to frighten via writing), gore and blood. Disturbing. No pairings or whatever. 
> 
> So I'd been stuck on the longer fic I've been working on. Writer's block sucks. Then this popped into my head. I don't even know...But it's proof I can write fics without pairings and that has to count for something, right?

_Tap, tap, tap._

 

America ignores the sound that he hears, faintly floating up from the basement. It was so quiet that he is certain that he only hears it because he knows it is there. That doesn't stop him from shuddering, a chill dancing up his spine.

 

Looking outside, he sees that the sun is setting. The canvas of the sky is an orange so deep it could be mistaken for red, dripping down below the horizon; dark trees, barren of their leaves, reaching up to catch all the colour. America closes his eyes, and breathes deep, filling his lungs with much needed air.

 

The doorbell rings once, then twice.

 

His impatient guest calling out for him to 'open the damned door'.

 

Pasting a smile over his wobbling lips, America bounds off to let his guest inside.

 

“Hey England. Took you long enough. Did ya get lost again?” says America, laughing loud and trying not to seem anything but happy.

 

“Brat. I wouldn't get lost if your highways weren't so uselessly complicated.”

 

“What isn't there to understand about them? And besides, why don't you use the GPS I bought for you last Christmas?”

 

“Bloody France spilled wine all over it last time he invaded my home.”

 

England hands his black pea-coat over to America, who hangs it up. He'd normally tell the Brit to just throw it anywhere, or to hang his own jacket up. However he needs this to go well. Needs everything to go smoothly.

 

_Tap, tap, tap._

 

England keeps walking into the living room as if he hadn't heard the damning sound. America's smile doesn't falter.

 

“The roast is almost done. Do you want a beer or something?” says America, shuffling his feet as he stands before the chair where his friend and former guardian sits.

 

“Sure. And you had better not have deep fried the entire hunk of beef this time.”

 

“I don't deep fry everything I make you know,” retorts America, “Besides, you're one to talk. You practically invented the full English breakfast yourself. You guys fry all the food in that. Even tomato halves.”

 

“It's different. At least we don't deep fry butter.”

 

America brings over a can of cold beer and a chilled pint glass and places them in front of England.

 

_Scratch, scratch, scratch_ and a _tap_ as if for good measure.

 

As if Alfred would forget.

 

Still barely perceptible, that noise. Especially over the pop of England's beer can and the pouring of the fizzy drink.

 

But still, America speaks, raising his voice obnoxiously to make sure the sound isn't heard, “Dude! I've never done that.”

 

“I bet you've eaten it.”

 

“Well...sure. I like to try all of the foods my people create.”

 

“Even if it leads to your death via heart attack?”

 

Pounding on his chest, America says, “I'm frickin' invincible. Now, let's stuff our faces full of food.”

 

And get the Brit drunk.

 

#

 

Four cans sit in front of England, he'd stacked them carefully, one over the other. They were a tad blurry now. So was America actually. No matter, a little blurriness wouldn't hurt him.

 

He'd long since finished his supper. It had been so good. Meat, potatoes and asparagus. Some of his very favourite foods for dinner. He was quite full and a smile works it's way onto England's face.

 

America doesn't often invite England over for drinks, let alone a meal out of the blue. It was always for a reason. Usually for a birthday or a holiday. This time, America had insisted there was no ulterior motive. Just good old camaraderie.

 

He'd missed this, though he wouldn't say that to the younger man.

 

_Tap, tap, tap._

 

There was that weird noise he'd been hearing for the last hour or so. What the hell was it?

 

“Here you go buddy!” says America cheerfully, setting down another pint in front of England.

 

“I don't know if I should have any more. The last thing I need is a headache in the morning.”

 

The other man pouts. Actually pouts, lip popping out and everything. Damn him. He couldn't resist that look when America was a child and he could hardly resist it now.

 

“Just one last beer. Please?”

 

“Fine,” grumbles England, picking up the frosty brew and tipping it back.

 

It's good, slightly sweet.

 

“Is this one different than the others,” slurs England and then looks at America, “Hey where's yours?”

 

Waving his hand back and forth, America says, “I'll get it in a sec.”

 

That seems reasonable. Though America had been saying that a whole lot that evening and England hadn't seen him-

 

_Tap, tap, tap._

 

“What is that damned noise?”

 

America's eyes look to the floor for just a moment before grinning and pointing outside, “The wind's picked up. Must be a tree branch against the outside walls or something.”

 

_Tap, tap, tap._

 

“Well it's annoying. Make it stop,” says England, holding his head which had begun to ache terribly.

 

“Soon. Drink up.”

 

_Tap, tap,_ and then one last loud _scratching_ noise.

 

England shivered and had no idea why. He wasn't cold, rather, he felt almost too hot. His temples throb painfully and his eyes blur even more. America kept nudging the beer closer and England pours the last of the drink down.

 

“Hell, I need to lay down now.”

 

Yet when he gets up, he stumbles.

 

“Lemme help you,” says America, puts an arm around England's waist and leads him away.

 

He may be drunk, very drunk and possibly a bit sick if the headache meant anything. However England knows that this isn't the way to America's guest rooms.

 

_Tap, tap, tap_.

 

“Where are you taking me you git?” though the words came out even more slurred than before and his legs began to feel like mush.

 

America opens a door.

 

Instantly a rush of frigid cold air blasts at them up from the basement and washes away the heat England had previously felt. It swirls around England and felt almost tangible, like he can hold the air in his hands. If only England could get his body to cooperate with him. His skin broke out in goosebumps and he tries to stumble away but can't even lift a foot.

 

“What the-”

 

And if the cold air hadn't chilled him enough, the look on America's face certainly did. A deep sorrow covers his every feature, lips curve down in displeasure. There is a dark resolution in the young man's gaze, the gleam of normal exuberance gone from those sky-blue eyes.

 

“I'm sorry England. But it has to be this way. It always does.”

 

And then he is falling. Falling down the stairs to the lower levels of America's home. A bone in his arms breaks on the fall down and he hits his head. God there'd be a bump there in the morning. Though he doesn't scream. He's had worse in so many wars.

 

Yet why was this so familiar. Why does England feel like he's done this before?

 

Why the hell had...?

 

Oh...

 

Oh God....

 

What the hell is that?

 

England has seen a lot of things in his long and nearly ageless life. He's seen the mortal and he's seen the immortal. He's been visited by all kinds of magical creatures, not all of which were completely benevolent.

 

Nothing has been like this gaunt creature, eyes dark and fathomless. It's body is ethereal; transparent like a ghost. Sharp teeth too big for the gaping maw of a mouth, long and slavering tongue twisting out and tipped like a serpent. Claws jutting out from grey skin and especially on it's feet. The talons on it's feet were huge and tapped and scratched against the floor.

 

It snarls and then charges England. It is tethered to a thick metal pole in the middle of the room.

 

England is too weak to move out of it's reach.

 

#

 

America clasps his hands over his ears and runs to the bedroom. He quickly puts on noise cancelling earphones and blasts music through them.

 

This is easier than previous decades, where such technology wasn't available and he had to deal with it. Listen to the screams of agony. Almost sure that he could hear the crunching of bones and the growls.

 

The t _ap, tap, tapping_ against the walls and the bottom floor. _Tap, tap, tap_ oh god _tap_.

 

But he needs to do it.

 

There isn't any other choice.

 

Finally, finally he drinks beer. He hadn't drunk before while getting England drunk. He does now.

 

America needs the escape.

 

He still hears the screams over the music.

 

#

 

Groggily, America wakes up and pries himself from the chair in his bed room. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes and pads down to the kitchen to get something to eat-

 

Then he remembers. The door to the basement is cracked and the irony smell of blood drifts up, thick and filling the air. It is the scent of evil.

 

One that is hopefully gone now.

 

Drenching a clean cloth in a strong lemon juice, America presses it up to his nose and creeps down the stairs.

 

He hopes it is gone.

 

America has never had to feed it more than once in all the years he'd been doing this.

 

Crimson covers the floors, the walls and even the ceiling. Not much remains, just the occasional shard of bone or chunk of some kind of flesh. America gags and forces the bile in his stomach to stay put.

 

Laying amid the carnage was a single body, drenched in blood, a collar around his throat and chained to a pole in the middle of the room.

 

Canada.

 

His blond hair matted to his head and body curled in on itself.

 

America works quick. He unchains Canada, picking up the other man.

 

He brings his brother upstairs and bathes him, getting rid of every trace of blood and gore, scrubbing under dirty and red stained fingernails. Getting his sibling dry and into some of the clothes the northern nation keeps in his house.

 

He puts Canada in the guest room he usually stays in.

 

That was the easy part.

 

The hard part was cleaning the basement.

 

Knowing that England, his friend, would eventually come back to life in his own lands didn't make it much better.

 

_The first time he'd gone through this had been when England had just won control over Canada. The frigid grip of winter had descended upon the lands. That in itself took a toll on the young northern nation of Canada. America knew this. He'd always felt his brother. Above him, always there. Even when they hadn't met in person._

 

_Canada was devastated to lose his big brother France._

 

_And so, somehow, he'd become that thing. That monster, ghost, undead._

 

_...Thing._

 

_Later, he found out from the natives in the land that such creatures were called a windigo. America pronounced it wendigo though, because it was easier._

 

_Canada's body had writhed on the ground, bones breaking and reforming, teeth lengthening, body nearly see-through. The boy took one look and his brother and America thought he'd be killed for sure._

 

_Except the monster didn't go after him. It just looked at him, followed him. Laid under his bed. Not caring that America cried about being scared. Yelled at it to go away._

 

_America had even punched it, but his fist went right through. The monster could get to him, if it wanted, but he couldn't get to it._

 

_He hadn't known Canada too well then. But it seemed that even the monster recognized the sibling in America._

 

_As soon as England stepped through the door to the home they shared, Canada leapt. His body was still small, even in the form of a terrifying monster. But he was strong. So very strong._

 

_England hadn't stood a chance._

 

_That night America hid in the closet, tears pouring down his chubby cheeks. Hitting his own head to attempt to smack out the memory of England being torn to shreds. Trying to drown out the tapping of claws against the floor of the house._

 

_Tap, tap, tap._

 

_When he crept out the next morning he saw Canada, curled up against the wall across from the closet. He was covered in blood and was shaking. His little stomach was distended, almost painfully. But he was human._

 

“ _Désolé,” whispered Canada, little violet eyes widened in fear, tears marking tracks through the red stained cheeks._

 

_And suddenly, America couldn't be mad. Couldn't lash out at the boy who was as scared as he was._

 

_England hadn't remembered. He knew he'd died, but blamed it on France who he'd just been at war with._

 

_Several years later, when Canada had changed again, America knew England was coming. He was a pre-teen by that time and old enough to ask around for help. From somebody. Anybody who might understand._

 

_Most people thought he was crazy. Some undead creature coming to life and eating people?_

 

_They called the idea bullshit._

 

_Others were scared of him and thought he was insane._

 

_However a shaman from a tribe had heard, had gotten word of what America was asking. And developed a potion for him. Taught him how to make it. It could erase memories. Too potent to work on a human. It would just kill a mortal creature._

 

_Perfect for a nation though._

 

America breaks out of his reverie and looks up the stairs, back in present-time.

 

Pat, pat, pat.

 

The sound of soft footsteps on the floor above the basement. So much better than the other noise. The dreadful tap.

 

“America? Are you around?” calls Canada, voice gentle like a whisper of wind in summer.

 

So unlike the frigid winter that Canada had just been made out of.

 

“Yeah. Almost done here. Don't come down.”

 

“Uh...yeah. O-okay. Do you have any Tums?” asks his brother.

 

“Bathroom cabinet as always.”

 

“R-right. I'm a little out of it and didn't think.”

 

America throws the last paper towel in the trash and then double layers the bag. Triples it.

 

He'll probably still be able to smell the blood.

 

He leaves it downstairs and goes up to see what Canada is up to.

 

His brother is chewing on an antacid, hands clenched together on his lap. He sits on the couch and stares at his feet.

 

“Why won't it stop?” asks Canada.

 

“I don't know.”

 

Even after all these years, America still doesn't know what to do to help his sibling feel better. Doesn't even understand why it happens. Just knows that it has something to do with winter?

 

His go-to form of comfort is food. Yet that isn't an option to help his brother feel better. Canada's stomach is still distended. Full.

 

He lets his brother rest his head on his shoulder and wraps an arm around Canada.

 

One day. Maybe

 

God maybe...

 

Everything would go away and be better.

 

#

 

The next world meeting, England only sees America. Barely registers Canada, like he sees right through the north American sibling.

 

When the man mistakes Canada later in the day for America. He is corrected by France.

 

The blank and dull look in England’s eyes follows a flash of fear which is quashed down, almost immediately.

 

“Oh, yes. I remember you now,” says England, followings his words with nervous laughter.

 

France scolds England for forgetting one of his former colonies. The Europeans get in a fight and England seems to forget the brothers.

 

But America and Canada know why he forgets. They know why the memories were always washed from the other nation's mind.

 

#

 

The transformation isn't often. Only every five or six years. But even still, they don't want to sacrifice a human to the ravenous hunger of the wendigo. A human would be dead forever.

 

So they lure England over. He would come back to life. Always does.

 

The monster would be appeased. Would stay dormant.

 

America would get his brother back. The top part of their continent. His family and friend.

 

Still, America jumps at every apparition. Hates ghosts. The creepy undead.

 

Hates not knowing when the next time his brother will change.

 

Hates how he can't do anything to stop it.

 

Hates the damn _tap, tap, tap_.

 

A year since the last time Canada changed, it's the middle of the night and America throws the lamp by his bed at the window to stop the tree outside from hitting the glass. Stop the _tapping_ that fills his thoughts. Shards scattered over his dresser and the floor, gleaming the in moon's silvery light. The tree's branch moves in the wind, through the now empty frame.

 

Over and over.

 

Yet the _tap, tap, tap_ still remains. And in the distance, outside, he swore saw the dark form of the wendigo, staring and ever present, this time _tapping_ it's claws against the trunk of a tree. Always _tapping_ it's claws.

 

Forever.

 

And _tap...tap...tap_.

 


End file.
